“How sad,” Finn said pensively. It was hard for him to understand why Paul had let Hope get away. And from the way she talked about him, Finn could tell that she still loved her ex-husband and cared about what happened to him. “I guess it wouldn’t be a bad life for a healthy man. I suppose if you’re sick, nothing is much fun anymore.”

“No, it’s not,” Hope said softly. “He’s part of an experimental program treating Parkinson’s at Harvard. He’s been doing fairly well until recently.”

“And now?”

“Not so well.” She didn’t offer the details, and Finn nodded.

“So what about you, when you’re not running off to Tibet and India and living in monasteries?” He smiled as he asked the question. They had both finished their drinks by then.

“I’m based in New York. I travel a lot for my work. And I go to Cape Cod when I have time, which isn’t often. Most of the time, I’m flying around taking photographs, or working on museum shows of my work.”

“Why Cape Cod?”

“My parents left me a house there. It’s where we spent summers when I was a child, and I love it. It’s in Wellfleet, which is a charming, sleepy little town. There’s nothing fancy or fashionable about it. The house is very simple, but it suits me, and I’m comfortable there. It has a beautiful view of the ocean. We used to go there for summers, when I was married. We lived in Boston then. I moved to New York two years ago. I have a very nice loft there, in SoHo.”

“And no one to share it with?”

She smiled as she shook her head. “I’m comfortable the way things are. Like you, it’s difficult being married to a photographer who’s never home. I can do things now that I never did when I was married. I float all over the world, and live out of a suitcase. It’s the opposite of what you do, locked in a room, writing, but it’s not very entertaining for someone else when I travel or even work. I never thought about it as selfish,” as he had said about his own work, “but maybe it is. I don’t answer to anyone now, and I don’t have to be anywhere.” He nodded as he listened, and they ordered dinner then. They were both having pasta, and decided to skip the first course. It was interesting to learn about each other’s lives, and he told her more about his house in Ireland then. It was easy to see how much he loved it and what it meant to him. It was part of his history and the tapestry of his life, woven into his being and dear to his heart.

“You have to come and see it sometime,” he offered, and she was curious about it.

“What sort of doctor was your father?” she asked him over their pasta, which was as delicious as he had promised, and as she remembered. The food there was better than ever.

“General medicine. My grandfather had been a landowner in Ireland, and never did much more than that. But my father was more industrious, and had studied in the States. He went back to marry my mother, and brought her over with him, but she never adjusted well to life away from Ireland. She died fairly young, and he not long after. I was in college then, and I always had a fascination with Ireland because of them. Their being Irish made it easy for me to get the nationality when I wanted it.

“And tax-wise, it made sense for me to give up my U.S. citizenship eventually. You can’t beat no income tax for writers. That was a pretty appealing setup for me, once the books were doing well. And now that I have my great-great-grandparents’ house back, I guess I’m there forever, although I don’t think I’ll ever be able to convince Michael to move there. He wants a career in the high-tech world when he graduates from MIT, and there are plenty of opportunities in Dublin, but he’s determined to live in the States and work in Silicon Valley or Boston. He’s an all-American kid. It’s his turn to find his way now. I don’t want to interfere with him, although I miss him like crazy.” He smiled ruefully at Hope as he said it, and she nodded and looked pensive. “Maybe he’ll change his mind and move to Ireland later, as I did. It’s in his blood. And I would love it, but he’s not interested in living in Ireland now.”

He wondered why she had never had children, but didn’t dare ask her. Maybe her husband had been too involved in his medical career at Harvard to want them, and she had been too busy attending to him. She was so gentle and nurturing that she seemed like the sort of woman who would do that, although she was deeply involved in her own career now. She had said they’d been married for twenty-one years.

Exchanging their histories and talking about their artistic passions made the evening go quickly, and they were both sorry when the evening came to an end and they left the restaurant after a predictably delicious dinner. Hope had indulged herself with the candies and chocolates Harry’s Bar was known for, after dinner. And Finn confessed that he was always sorely tempted to steal the brightly colored Venetian ashtrays, when they had had them on the tables, when smoking was still allowed. She laughed at the image of his sneaking one into the pocket of his well-tailored dark blue suit. She couldn’t see him do it, although she had to admit, it might have been tempting. She had always liked their ashtrays too. They were considered collectors’ items now.

He started to drive her back to Claridge’s after dinner, and then hesitated before they got there.

“Can I talk you into one more drink? You can’t leave London without going to Annabel’s, and it’s almost Christmas. It’ll be lively there,” he suggested, looking hopeful, and she was about to decline, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She was tired, but game for one more glass of champagne. Talking to him was delightful, and she hadn’t had an evening like this in years, and doubted she would again anytime soon. Her life in New York was quiet and solitary and didn’t include nightclubs and fancy dinners, or invitations from handsome men like Finn.

“All right, just one drink,” she agreed. And Annabel’s was packed when they walked in. It was as busy and festive as he promised. They sat in the bar, had two glasses of champagne each, and he danced with her before they left and then drove her back to Claridge’s. It had been a terrific evening, for both of them. He loved talking to her, and she enjoyed his company too.

“After a night like this, I wonder what I’m doing, living in solitude outside Dublin. You make me want to move back here,” Finn said as they got back to her hotel. He turned off the engine, and turned to look at her. “I think I realized tonight that I miss London. I don’t spend enough time here. But if I did, you wouldn’t be here, so it wouldn’t be any fun anyway.” She laughed at what he said. There was a boyish side to him that appealed to her, and a sophisticated side that dazzled her a little. It was a heady combination. And he felt the same way about her. He liked her gentleness, intelligence, and subtle but nonetheless lively sense of humor. He’d had a terrific time, better than he had in years, or so he said. He was also charming, so she didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but it didn’t really matter. They had obviously both enjoyed it.

“I had a wonderful time, Finn. Thank you. You didn’t have to do all that,” she said graciously.

“It was great for me too. I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow,” he said sadly.

“So do I,” she confessed. “I always forget how much I like London.” The night life there had always been great, and she loved the museums, which she hadn’t had enough time to visit at all on this trip.

“Could I talk you into staying for another day?” he asked her, looking hopeful, and she hesitated, but shook her head.

“I shouldn’t. I really ought to get back, and I have to edit your pictures. They’re working on a pretty tight deadline.”

“Duty calls. I hate that,” he said, looking disappointed. “I’ll call you the next time I come to New York,” he promised. “I don’t know when, but I will, sooner or later.”

“I won’t be able to give you a night as nice as this.”

“There are some good places in New York too. I have my favorite haunts.” She was sure he did. And in Dublin too. And probably everywhere he went. Finn didn’t seem to be the sort of man to sit around at home at night, except when he was writing. “Thank you for having dinner with me tonight, Hope,” he thanked her politely as they got out of the car. It was freezing cold, and he walked her into the lobby as she held her coat tightly around her in the icy wind. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised, as she thanked him again. “Have a safe trip back.”

“Enjoy your holidays with Michael,” she said warmly, smiling up at him.

“He’ll only be here for a few days, and then he’ll be off skiing with his friends. I only get about five minutes with him these days. It’s of the age. I’m damn near obsolete.”

“Enjoy whatever time you get,” she said wisely, and he kissed her cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Hope. I had a wonderful day.”

“Thank you, Finn. So did I. I’ll send you the proofs of the pictures as soon as I can.” He thanked her and waved, as she walked into the lobby alone, with her head down, thinking. She had had such a nice time, far more than she’d expected. And as she got in the elevator and rode up to her floor, she was genuinely sorry to be leaving the next day. After London, it was going to seem very dull now to go up to the Cape for Christmas.

Chapter 4

It was snowing again when Hope got back to New York. The next morning she looked out her window at six inches of snow blanketing Prince Street, and decided not to drive to Cape Cod. Being in London had reminded her of how much fun it could be in the city, and when everyone else went shopping that afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, Hope went to the Metropolitan Museum, to see a new medieval exhibit there, and then walked back down to SoHo through the still-falling snow, which by then had been called a blizzard.

The city was almost shut down. There was no traffic on the streets, cabs were impossible to find, and only a few hardy souls like her were walking home, trudging through the snow. Offices had closed early, and schools were already on vacation. Her cheeks were red and her eyes tearing, and her hands were tingling from the cold when she got back to her loft, and put the kettle on for tea. It had been an invigorating walk, and a delightful afternoon. And she had just sat down with a steaming cup of tea when Mark Webber called her from home. His office was closed till New Year’s. There were no assignments likely to come up between Christmas and New Year.

“So how was it?” he asked, curious about O’Neill.

“He was great. Interesting, smart, easy to shoot, terrific looking. He was everything you’d expect him to be, and nothing like his books, which are always so complicated and dark. I haven’t started editing the shots yet, but we got some great ones.”

“Did he try to rape you?” Mark asked, only half-joking.

“No. He took me for a very civilized dinner at Harry’s Bar, and to Annabel’s afterward for a drink. He treated me like a visiting dignitary and great-aunt.”

“Hardly. Going to the most fashionable restaurant and nightclub in London is not exactly what you do with a great-aunt.”

“He was very proper,” Hope reassured him, “and wonderful to talk to. He’s a man of many interests. I almost wish I’d shot him in Dublin, it sounds like he’s more in his element there, but I’m fairly certain we got the shots his publisher wanted. Maybe more than they need. He’s cooperative and very pleasant to work with.” She didn’t add that he looked like a movie star, which he did. “His London house is the size of a postage stamp, which was a bitch with the equipment, but we managed. The one outside Dublin sounds like Buckingham Palace. I’d have liked to see it.”

“Well, thanks for doing it on such short notice. His publisher is damn lucky. What are you doing over the holiday, Hope? Are you still going to the Cape?” It seemed unlikely in the blizzard, and unwise. He hoped not.

She smiled as she looked out the window, at the continuing swirls of snow. There were nearly two feet of it on the ground now, and it was still coming, while the wind blew it into towering drifts. They had promised three feet by morning. “Not in this weather,” she said, smiling. “Even I’m not that crazy, although it would be pretty once I got there.” Most of the roads had been closed by that afternoon, and getting there would have been a nightmare. “I’ll stay here.” Finn had given her his latest book to read, she had some photographs she wanted to sort through for a gallery in San Francisco that wanted to give her a show, and she had Finn’s shoot to edit.

“Call if you get lonely,” he said kindly, but knew she wouldn’t. Hope was very independent, and had led a solitary, quiet life for several years. But he at least wanted her to know that someone cared about her. He worried about her at times, although he knew she was good at keeping busy. She was just as likely to be taking photographs on the streets of Harlem on Christmas Eve, as shooting in a coffee shop for truckers on Tenth Avenue at four in the morning. It was what she did, and how she loved spending her time. Mark admired her for it, and the work that resulted from it had made her famous.